


love on purpose

by bri_ness



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Canon Compliant, Drabbles, Fluff, Humour, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 01:13:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 2,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21838924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bri_ness/pseuds/bri_ness
Summary: A collection of drabbles about Alex and Henry's life together.
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor
Comments: 38
Kudos: 246





	1. Hi, love

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is a collection of firstprince drabbles I originally posted on my tumblr, [brionbroadway](http://brionbroadway.tumblr.com). Each piece stands alone and most are in response to prompts. I'll post more as I write them, but everything will still be posted on my tumblr first. Enjoy!

“Hi, love.”

It’s the only way to greet Alex. There’s a few reasons that Henry does it. 

First, of course, for Alex’s smile. The fall of his shoulders, the exhale, the escape of the kind of energy that’s made from everything that keeps them awake. Even if Alex can’t fully let it go, he can trust Henry with it, and that’s enough.

The _hi_ is necessary. Bring Alex out of his head and into the moment, especially when his head is devising some plan to save the world and he believes this is the only moment to do it. _Hi,_ Henry says, and in it, there’s this: _I love what you do, but I love who you are even more_. _Hi, Alex. Be here with me._

_Love_ , that’s a reminder for both of them. 

For Alex, that it’s what Henry thinks of when he thinks of him. Not as a president’s son, or an activist, or a fucking menace, but as the actual personification of love. Not only for Henry, though he somewhat cockily believes he gets the best kind, but for his family. For Pez and Bea, who he’s embraced like they’ve been family all along. For Texas and the entire world outside of it. Every question he asks is the same: _how can I love better_? And when he gets an answer, he acts on it. He is love, and he is a verb.

For Henry, that this is real. That he’s allowed this despite all the times he’s been told he isn’t. That he gets to kiss Alex’s head, and save the world alongside him, and greet him in the way he deserves.

“Hi, love.” 


	2. Quit smiling at me...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In response to the prompt: “Quit smiling at me, I can’t stop messing up my sentences when you look at me like that.”

This is, quite possibly, the most turned on Alex has ever been.

It’s a very specific sexuality, he knows. The-Prince-of-England-rehearsing-a-speech-for-his-youth-shelter-while-wearing-cozy-plaid-pajamas-and-no-shirt. Much too long for a PowerPoint slide, thank God.

But, it’s just–fucking precious is the only way Alex can describe it, because he’s not the writer here. Henry’s tripping over his words a bit, but it’s only because he’s passionate, talking quickly and loudly and…not _prince-ly_ , but as himself. Alex can’t wait for the world to know Henry. 

“Could you stop?”

It’s Henry that snaps Alex out of the trance he induced. “What?”

“Smiling at me like that. I keep messing up.”

Alex’s smile shifts into a smirk. “Because of me?”

“I’m not used to talking like this, you know. Not like you Americans, who not only think silences must be broken, but crushed with anvils.”

“Does all your understanding of our culture come from cartoons?”

Henry turns his back to Alex. 

“I’m sorry,” Alex says. “What is happening now?”

“You’re quite the distraction, love. Intentionally or otherwise. And I need to focus, because this is too important not to go well.”

Alex gets it. 

Placing his hands on Henry’s shoulders, Alex turns him back around to face him. “Baby,” he says, voice low. “I’m smiling like this because I’m proud of you. And because I fucking love you. I can’t turn either of those things off.”

“I just don’t want to come off as a figurehead,” Henry says. “I want people to know I care about this, not for my reputation, but so I’ll be trusted to do the work.”

“They’ll know. Everyone’s finally going to know you as I do.”

Henry raises his eyebrows. “Not _quite_ as you do.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then who do you know me as, Alex?”

“Someone you have to smile at.”


	3. Could I hold your hand?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In response to the prompt: "Could I hold your hand?" (Alternate title: gays be like, hands).

Alex’s hands are dancers.

Henry knows it’s pretentious to think in metaphors, but he can’t turn his writer-brain off, not with a subject as inspiring as Alex.

So, his hands–it’s certainly not that they’re graceful. It’s the dedication they show, the callouses and cuts from working when they should rest, taking foolhardy risks. It’s the evidence of the grunt work he does for his mom, the late night study sessions, his inability to _not_ help.

It’s all for his passion. All because he believes it’s worth it.

Alex’s hands are fucking beautiful, but they deserve a break. So, Henry’s picked up a habit. When he’s tired of watching binders slice Alex’s fingers, he asks, “Could I hold your hand?”

Alex thinks it’s endearing, a cute thing Henry does. And yes, of course it’s that, but it’s also Henry offering Alex the reprieve he won’t give himself.

One night, Henry gives himself away.

With Alex’s hand in his, he says, “You’d be lousy at war, you know.”

“The ethical objections would make it difficult,” Alex says.

“And how easily you give up your strongest asset and most powerful weapon.”

Alex glances down at his hands. “These things?”

Henry nods. “You do so much good with them, but sometimes you overwork them. Hurt yourself.”

“Isn’t there something about how idle hands are the devil’s playthings?”

“You’re already a demon, so I’m not sure why you’re concerned about that.”

Alex smirks. “You think you know half of what my hands can do?”

Henry swallows hard. “ _Demon_.”

“I like this, though. When you ask to hold my hand.”

Henry raises their hands to his lips and kisses each of Alex’s knuckles. “Anytime, love.”

Alex’s hands are dancers, and Henry’s grateful not only to have front row seats, but a backstage pass.


	4. I would've had breakfast ready...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In response to the prompt: “I would’ve had breakfast ready, but you were sleeping on my arm, and I didn’t want to wake you.”

Henry expected his capture to be more dramatic. 

Especially at Alex’s hands. Alex, who once confessed that as a teenager, he drew a comic with his friends called _American Revolution II: This time, it’s personal._ ( _How’d you get rid of me_? Henry asked. Alex explained that just being in the presence of someone with personality made him dissolve). 

Foolish logic, really. Henry was disappearing until Alex made him want to be seen.

Henry supposes it’s not Alex’s hands that have captured him, but his ass, which is a metaphor he tries not to dwell on. Henry doesn’t dare move; he’s never seen Alex sleep like this, so deep, so long, so relaxed. He’ll stay here forever if it’s where Alex is at peace.

When Alex does wake, Henry wonders if he was loving him too loudly. 

Though Alex insists he needs coffee, he is on from the moment he wakes up, fully himself even when the world doesn’t want him to be. He greets Henry with a smile, like he’s been reminded that he can be as calm awake as he is asleep. 

“Morning, love,” Henry whispers, just so that smile will widen. “I see you’ve adapted your plan for overthrowing the monarchy. 

Alex furrows his eyebrows until he realizes their position, then he grins, game as ever to play along. “Got you now, sweetheart,” he says, punctuating it with a truly terrible impression of an evil laugh. It’s impossible for him not to sound fond.

“How long are you planning on keeping me here?”

“Until you atone for all the colonization.”

“Shame. I was going to make breakfast.”

“Then I’m also saving the world from bland beans on toast. I am the true American hero. They should name a medal after me–”

Henry kisses him, still the best strategy to get him to stop talking. “You play dirty, your highness,” Alex says.

But he kisses him back. 


	5. Did they hurt you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In response to the prompt: "Did they hurt you?"

Alex has principles. 

This is not what Nora calls them. She prefers _impulses driven by faulty logic._ June, more directly, calls them _the result of dumbassery that is your birthright as a younger brother_. 

But ok, Alex thinks he’s noble. An American hero, if you will. Because he is saving the taxpayers’ valuable money from funding a fucking suite for a turkey. 

And yes, _Nora_ , he knows how this went last year. Yes, _June,_ he doesn’t see another option here. _Yes_ , the turkey is in his room again. 

But it should’ve been fine, because Henry’s supposed to be in his room. Henry, his handsome, doting boyfriend, who is also a literal prince. Isn’t that what princes _do?_ Save the day and shit?

But Henry left to get a glass of water thirty minutes ago, and the White House is big, but it’s not a fucking palace. Alex fires off a text: _WHERE ARE YOU??? EMERGENCY._

Because the turkey is staring at Alex. It’s a _sure, you’ll pardon me, but what about all my turkey friends? I will avenge them_ stare. Alex is sure of it.

Within minutes, Henry rushes into the room the way someone does when they’re told it’s an emergency. He looks at Alex, then the turkey, then at Alex again. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“He’s staring at me.”

With a grave seriousness, Henry approaches Alex and places both hands on his cheeks. “Did they hurt you?”

“I actually hate you.”

“I knew this day would come. I’m the son of James Bond, you know. I must fight for my love in an epic battle.” 

(Alex notices, not for the first time, that Henry brings his dad up casually now. That’s good, right? He knows you never stop grieving, but maybe there’s healing–)

The turkey moves, Alex yelps, and Henry laughs like an asshole.

“Come here,” Henry says, moving his hands from Alex’s cheeks to his waist. He pulls Alex in so that he’s holding him. “I’ll protect you, sweetheart.” 

Alex tilts his chin up to kiss him, then reconsiders. 

“What?” Henry asks.

“It just feels wrong,” Alex says. “In front of the turkey. Like I should protect their innocence.”

“The innocence of the creature you’re convinced is going to murder you?”

Alex nods as though to say: _yes, of course._

“Alex, you have never protected anyone’s innocence in your life.”

Alex grins. “Well, when you put it that way.”

They kiss, and Alex is glad he has impulses driven by faulty logic, as well as a certain level of dumbassery.

If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have this.


	6. In which Henry is sick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In response to the prompt: "hello! I know this isn't part of the prompt list, but could you do a sickfic for Henry + Alex? one where Henry is really sick but tries to hide it from Alex because he doesn't know how to let someone take care of him that way since no one did that for him growing up?"

Henry’s illnesses have always been dealt with efficiently. 

They were treated as a problem to solve. Schedule a doctor’s appointment, stick to a meal plan of buttered toast and chicken noodle soup, stay quarantined as not to infect anyone more important than you. 

It’s different with Alex. 

When he said he doesn’t need to see a doctor, it’s a flu, he _knows_ it’s the flu, but yes, he’ll go if anything feels off, Alex said, “Ok.” When he confessed to only craving the greasiest fast food when sick, despite knowing it won’t make him feel any better, Alex went out and got him McDonald’s. And now, when he asks Alex to leave their room, Alex just stares at him. 

“Why would I do that?”

Henry blinks. “Because it’s a Tuesday afternoon and you have other places to be.”

Alex makes a horrible buzzing sound like they’re on an American game show. “Nope. Not a good enough reason. Try again.” 

“Because I’m contagious.” 

“Did you know that you’re contagious before you show symptoms? If I’m going to get the flu, it’ll be because of what we did last night.” Alex pauses, interrupting his own thoughts in that way that’s as annoying as endearing. “You got the flu shot, right? Are you sure I didn’t, like, cause this?”

“Are you implying you brought down a prince with your–” Henry’s cough cuts him off, scratchy and painful and deeply awful. 

Alex frowns at him. “Sweetheart.”

“I feel terrible,” he admits, because he feels like he can. Like he won’t be classed as a failure if he’s sick for longer than twenty-four hours, if he just rests for longer than he’s typically allowed to.

“Here’s what we’ll do,” Alex says, joining Henry in bed. He uses his phone to turn on the TV. “We can watch a historical documentary and you can point out all the inaccuracies, specifically who was actually in a forbidden gay love affair. That sound good?”

“You don’t have to–”

“I’m staying, ok? That’s non-negotiable.”

Henry’s illnesses have always led to something else. Isolation, then a darkness, then a belief that he’ll never recover from his brain and body’s coordinated attacks. 

It’s different with Alex. It’s different with someone who doesn’t need him to be ok. Someone who doesn’t leave him alone when he’s not. Someone who just loves him, when it’s inconvenient to, when it’s annoying to, when Henry hasn’t needed to earn it. 

Head against Alex’s chest, Henry feels ok enough to rest, then to recover. 


	7. The PowerPoint

“This is the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

“I take great offence to that.”

Alex understands. There are the emails with the sweetest, horniest words Alex has ever read. There’s the quiet, constant refilling of the coffee pot so Alex never drinks sludge. There are even flowers because Henry never thought he’d get to buy flowers for someone, a sentiment so simultaneously sweet and sad that Alex’s heart broke, then repaired itself into something stronger.

So, maybe it’s unfair to call a PowerPoint the most romantic thing, but:

“You followed the principles of PowerPoint design.”

“Well, yes. After listening to your lectures about it, I worried for my safety if I didn’t.”

“I mean, my professors are supposed to be some of the smartest people in the world, and they still—”

“Put entire paragraphs on slides. I know: it is a national crisis. Perhaps your mom should it make it one of her initiatives.”

“She would, though. You know she would.”

Henry concedes and resumes the slideshow. It’s about rest, and more specifically, why Alex needs it.

Because ok, he’s always been a bit…wired, as Nora puts it. (June goes for _obsessive_ ). But law school, it’s just another thing entirely. He always considered the implications and weight of his political work, how doing x would affect y number of people. But as a lawyer, x is his competence, directly determining the course of Hanna’s life. And Sebastian’s. And y number of people that won’t be nameless anymore.

He has to know what he’s talking about. He just has to.

So there are even more all-nighters, and too much coffee, and a short, nerve-ending attitude coming out of him that he fucking hates.

But there’s also Henry, quietly and competently making him a PowerPoint.

His arguments are both research-based and anecdotal. He cites studies that prove that sleep helps you retain information. He draws the conclusion that the more time Alex spends in bed, the more sex they will have. (Henry’s brain, 2021). Most compellingly, he delivers it all beside Alex in bed, his laptop between them, heartbeat and heat and all good things close.

“I figured this was the best way to get your attention,” Henry says, closing his laptop once he’s finished. “Since you’re always studying off PowerPoints.”

Alex feels a pit of guilt he knows Henry didn’t intend. “I’m just stressed. I need to be good at this.”

Henry places the gentlest kiss on the top of his head.

“Alex, I know you’ll be good at this—"

“Yeah, ok.”

“ _Alex_.”

Alex listens.

“I know that, because you are fucking spectacular at being yourself, and that is who I’d want fighting for me.”

For tonight, Alex rests.


	8. Sold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In response to the prompt: "resfeber - thrill felt before an adventure"

“Are you sure we can live here? I mean, each room has a _purpose_. What’s a home if not a display of excessive and oppressive wealth? We don’t even have a hallway where we can hang our disturbingly large portraits. And the ceiling! It’s far too low for a chandelier.”

Henry snakes his hand around Alex’s waist, a gesture that’s become so familiar, but still makes him shiver. “I understand your concerns,” he says, voice low and hot and _ugh._ “But I haven’t shown you the dungeon yet, love.”

Alex grins. “Sold.”

It’s the first time Alex’s seen the brownstone, and it’s led to a thousand incredible, impossible realizations. Like this one: he and Henry will be able to have sex all the time. Literally whenever. How fucking incredible is that?

Also: he’ll know every book that Henry reads. He’ll hear him sing in the shower, with the kind of volume and passion that rivals his drunk karaoke performance. He’ll eavesdrop on and crash his calls with Pez and Bea.

He’ll be there when Henry goes dark, not a phone call or email or wish away. He’ll be right there. 

And Henry, he’ll know every interesting reading Alex does for class. He’ll watch Alex dance around the kitchen as he cooks, because God knows it’ll be awhile before Alex trusts him to season anything. He’ll join Alex’s debates with June and Nora, and he’ll never, ever side with Alex. 

He’ll be there, loving Alex exactly how he is. He’ll be right there. 

Alex feels simultaneously sixteen and thirty-five. He’s had more adventures than some people do in a lifetime, but this tops them all. He gets to experience all the firsts of the life he wants to settle into, the life he _is_ settling into. An incredible, impossible thing. 

He’s sold.


End file.
